Him and I

I flop down onto a green beanbag in Elliot’s room and huff as I get an Xbox controller functioning. The TV glows with the blue Halo loading screen. I crave a bit of nostalgia to calm my racing thoughts from landing on the horrors of my senior prom dress shopping.

Elliot plops down next to me, sipping on Dr. Pepper. “Damn Nyssa, I haven’t seen you this pissed since the sixth-grade science fair.” Nyssa. That name sounds like a rusty swing.

I kick his leg where it rests next to mine and sink deeper into the beanbag, so far my tailbone finds the hard wood of the floor. The controller warms my hands; Elliot must have used it when I was out shopping with Mom. My stomach churns at the memory of scratchy tulle on my bare skin and constrictive bodice boning. Even Halo can’t block it out completely.

“Tell your best, most amazing, wonderful,” Elliot leans into me, “friend what’s wrong.”

I stop myself from shoving him away, instead allowing the touch to burn away the itch of lace. “Mom and I bought my prom dress today.” It’s a hideous teal monstrosity. It was also the first, and only, dress I tried on. My brain latches onto the picture and pulls it before my eyes.

The bodice hugs my chest in all the wrong places. The neckline is an inch or two under my collarbones which I usually cover with graphic tees and hoodies. The waist is cinched and steals my breath away. The slit in the skirt travels up to my mid-thigh; only a few inches of fabric keep my dignity intact. I want to claw the dress off my body, burn off the skin that it touched. My breath quickens, and my ears begin to buzz. The Halo selection menu looks blurry.

“-s, Nys!” Elliot shakes my shoulder so hard my thoughts scatter. “You back with me?”

I blink a few times. My eyes sting. I bring up a hand to wipe them. Dampness greets my fingertips. Not wanting to worry Elliot further, I wipe my hand on my faded black jeans. “Yeah, I’m fine.” The words sound pitiful as soon as they leave my mouth. Elliot begins to open his mouth, but I start the game before he can ask whatever stupid question he conjured up.

My stomach and mind settle as I focus on taking down enemies and capturing the other team’s flag. We play split screen, just like we did when we were kids. A good ten minutes pass before any words other than “nice kill” or “on your left” are spoken. I yawn and stretch out my legs, nudging Elliot’s foot in the process. It’s accidental. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

Elliot scrolls through Tumblr as the server reloads. “Why’d your mom even care so much about a dress?” He tosses his phone onto his bed, nearly missing his target.

A grumble erupts from my throat. It appears the conversation hasn’t been laid to rest. I drop my controller into my lap. So, we’re doing this. “Apparently, senior prom is the most important thing in the world, and she wants to show off to her sisters that her daughter can dress up like a perfect princess.” There’s venom on my tongue that I only drip for Elliot’s ears. Girls that complain too much are bitchy, not funny or confident or strong willed – bitchy.

The screen freezes. I stand up from the beanbag and go to pilfer snacks from the box in Elliot’s closet: Doritos for him and Sun chips for me. I toss him a bag and pace around the room while munching. “She didn’t ask if I wanted to go. She just pulled me into the Camry and told me, ‘Today’s the day!’” Once I start, I can’t stop. Words flow quickly whenever I’m with Elliot.

He watches me from his seat. “What if you wear somethin’ else?”

“That dress was over two hundred dollars.” I crush the chip bag in my hand with a satisfying crunch. “There’s no way I’m getting out of wearing it.” In two months, I’ll have to squeeze myself back into the Saw Trap. Bile rises in my throat. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

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Later that night, I curl in bed with my laptop warming my thighs. Tumblr is open. My roleplay blog is a sweet distraction from the mountain of questions in my head. What am I going to do about prom? Why do I hate my reflection? Do Elliot’s touches actually mean anything?

I sink into my pillows and focus on a new conundrum for my original character – Isaac. He’s the me-but-not-me I’ve used for years in fandom spaces. Right now, he’s in League of Legends. Five months ago, he was in the X-Men, three months before that an Exy player, and last summer he was the Winchester’s younger brother. His age varies depending on where I place him, but he’s always 5’10” with a build like the anime guys I fawned over in middle school. His voice is a deep timber, syllables curling together in a nondescript Midwest accent. His upper lip and jaw are dusted with faint stubble, like Elliot, though it's brown instead of blond.

We match in small ways: the scar on his right cheek, the mole on his neck, and the amber of his eyes. I try not to think about those details.

Instead, I glance down at the time – 12:42. School starts at eight tomorrow morning, but I don’t want to fall into dreams filled with sequins and silk. My fingers string together a half-baked conflict about lab troubles Isaac needs to solve before I press post.

A notification from Elliot’s blog pops up. “Sounds like you could use another pair of hands, Ize.”

The giggle that erupts from my throat is horribly high pitched. I cough the sound away and slip into “Isaac Mode” to follow up with Elliot. Alistair – Elliot’s character – and Isaac work on a project together and bicker, much like Elliot and I when we do calculus homework.

I entertain Alistair’s flirting. “Only if they’re yours.” My breath steadies as Elliot and I go back and forth. Being Isaac is easy in a way being Nyssa isn’t. I tease and command for everyone to see. I complain about stuffy ties and celebrate my physical strength. Even if Isaac only exists online, it's a space where I can let down my walls. I can be all of me. Me.

My fingers stall above the keyboard. The room is silent. Mom’s snoring down the hall even subsides. Another notification glows on my screen. I slam my laptop with such vigor I fear the screen cracks. Pieces come together like a puzzle: my name, the dress, my reflection, Isaac.

My eyes are blown wide for so long they begin to dry, but I can’t shut them. If I do, Isaac will be there. He’ll appear like he always does. He’ll look at me with our umber eyes and speak in our twin cadence. He’ll try to comfort me like he did for Charles, Neil, Dean, and Alistair. He’ll ask me why I’m panicking because wasn’t it obvious before with the vomit inducing dresses and the constant ponytails?

I fist my hands in my hair in a futile attempt to yank the thoughts from my head. It is obvious. My churning stomach refuses to acknowledge it, but Isaac is right. He always is.

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I don’t share my revelation with Elliot, which worsens the anxiety in my chest. I’ve always told Elliot everything. He was the first person I went to about my parents’ divorce when we were fourteen. He was the first person to know about my crush on James Garcia in fifth grade. Elliot knows everything.

I try to put a bit of distance between us by coming up with excuses as to why I can’t come over, typically blaming Mom, but after three weeks I’m out of them. It’s the longest I’ve ever been away from his house, but laying in his room still feels like coming home.

It’s Friday night and a chill drifts in through the open window, carrying the smoke from our shared joint throughout the room. Friday nights have been dedicated smoking nights since sophomore year because Elliot’s parents use the day for date nights. Mom never questions it when I say I’m going to Elliot’s place. She’s known him since Elliot and I were four.

The smoke sits heavy in my lungs until my limbs fill with pleasant numbness. I drag my finger over the flatness of my sternum and wish the rest of my chest felt the same. Obvious.

Elliot takes the joint back. He puffs out rings and plants the joint in his ashtray – a clay project from first grade that was intended as a rice bowl. “Leann says she wants to talk.”

Not the ex. I groan and snatch back the joint. I naively thought we were past her. “Leann talk” means I need to climb until my brain fills with fog. “Is it a good talk?”

Elliot’s eyes roll as they meet mine. “Uh, when does talk ever mean a good talk?” His back cracks as he sits up. He plucks the joint, and I give him a puppy-eyed expression. He folds and hands it back. “She wants to try again.”

“Really?” Smoke gets caught in my throat. “I thought you broke up amicably?” Each syllable drops from my tongue with distaste. I pass back the joint.

He frowns and snubs it out, stashing it back in his old Altoids tin. “Yeah, we did, Nys.”

The nickname feels like biting metal, which in retrospect makes sense. Nys isn’t Isaac. The name has same piercing sensation that “friend” has. The weight of the name piles up until I’m sure it’ll squash me. “Are you going to get back together?” I stare at the ceiling; neon swirls look back at me, the ones we painted in elementary school when galaxy print was all the rage.

Leann. Nys. Friend.

I don’t want to be Elliot’s friend. Girlfriend would work better; it holds a weight people take seriously. I grimace. The idea of calling myself that makes my gut churn like it did in the Teal Terror. I want to be Elliot’s, just not his girlfriend. Never girlfriend.

My hand searches for the Altoids tin, but Elliot already slid it out of reach. “Elio.” My voice rises in pitch which doesn't settle the acid in my throat. My voice should be lower. Sitting next to Elliot, with his broad shoulders and square jaw worsens my nausea. Paired with the realization I’m hiding about Isaac, it's a mystery I haven’t hurled all over Elliot’s carpet.

Elliot leans back on the floor. “I’m not gonna date Leann again.” His eyes lock with mine. His pupils aren’t very dilated, too sober. His irises are blue with a green center. Heterochromia, he told me, only one percent of the global population has it. If my frantic late-night Googling is anything to go by, I’m just as special. Elliot just doesn’t know that.

Our noses are nearly touching. It’s times like these that I’ll think he’ll kiss me. I could carry the burden of girlfriend if it meant having Elliot. My stomach jumps. “Can I ask you something weird?”

“Asking permission now?” He huffs out a laugh, and it smells like pepperoni pizza.

My eyes dance across his face. I want to trail my finger down his jaw and feel his stubble prickle my skin. His lips, paler than mine, less full, look enticing. His sandy hair rests against his forehead. My own is at least seven inches longer and a boring dark brown.

I imagine myself as Elliot for a moment – masculine, imposing. His face morphs into Isaac’s before I can correct the fantasy. It feels right. I hunger for Isaac, for him to be real, to be him. “What was it like being Leann’s boyfriend?” Boyfriend. The word warms my chest.

Elliot looks at me with furrowed brows.

I bite my lip so hard the taste of iron rushes over my tongue. I want the joint back. I want my thoughts to swim together until I can’t make sense of them. I want to forget about Isaac. I want to undo my realization and just be happy being Nyssa.

“I think you smoked too much, Nys.” He pushes himself onto his feet and tucks the Altoids tin into his desk drawer. The thud as it slides shut signals the end of our conversation.

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I can’t keep the revelation inside my own head anymore. I’m losing sleep over it, over nobody else knowing who I am. So, three days later, I’m back at Elliot’s house. He drives us home from school. I told him there was something big I wanted to tell him. Without the deadline, I’d keep my secret to myself and lose my mind. Elliot picks up Andy’s custard to calm my nerves since he knows it’s my favorite – a triple chocolate concrete, mint chip for him.

I turn up the radio to drown out my thoughts, but it fails to do the trick. Elliot doesn’t ask what’s wrong; he knows I’ll tell him when I’m ready. I tug my jean jacket around my shoulders and dig into my custard. It’s sickeningly sweet, and the cookie dough bites stick to my teeth. I think of the scissors in my backpack, the ones I stole from Mom’s sewing kit. A hairdresser wouldn’t approve, but I’m not a hairdresser.

Elliot drives through our shared neighborhood, passing by beige, white, and blue houses. He pulls into his driveway. I sling my backpack over my shoulders as I step out of the car. Elliot gets the front door for me. We march up the stairs in step. We’ve perfected our routine from years of practice.

Elliot drops his bag by his desk and takes his seat. “I think AP bio is a punishment from God.” He snags his textbook from a shelf on his desk and flips it open.

I watch him from my perch on his bed and pick at the cotton of my socks. Now or never. “Elio, if I told you something crazy you wouldn’t tell anyone else, right?”

Elliot tilts his head back, pondering. “Depends on how crazy. Like if you killed someone? That’d be batshit, but I’d still help you hide the body.” He smirks, but it falls as soon as he sees my panicked expression. “You didn’t actually kill somebody, did you?”

“No, I didn’t kill anyone, moron.” I pluck a small pillow from his bed and throw it at him.

He dodges it with little effort. “Dork.”

“Nerd.” I swirl my custard. It’s melting under the heat of my hand. I bring my knees up to my chest and scooch back until my spine hits the wall. “What if I didn’t want to be Nys anymore?” My eyes are trained on the spoon.

Elliot stalls. “I don’t follow.” There isn’t any malice to his voice, only pure confusion.

My toes curl. “I want to be a guy.” The words hang in the air. “I want to be Isaac.” The tension in the room is enough to choke me. I spare a glance up, despite my mind screaming at me to look anywhere but at Elliot.

He’s going to hate me. He’s going to kick me out of his house and tell me to never come back. I’m going to lose him. Why couldn’t I just be Nyssa?

He pouts the same way he does when he's looking at a complex physics equation. His fingers tap along his desk – a quick one, two, three, four. He repeats it six times, then goes on to flipping through his textbook for a few minutes. “Alright.”

“Alright?” I parrot. “That’s it?” A laugh jumps out of my throat though nothing is funny about the situation. The room becomes warm, like a childhood blanket.

Elliot just shrugs as if he hasn’t fractured my mind. “It’s not like you’re a completely different person.” He leans back in his chair so far he nearly tumbles out of it. “I’m friends with you because you’re you, Isaac.” The name makes my heart soar. Never in my life has a name felt like stepping into perfectly fitted shoes. “You play COD zombies and enjoy derivatives and worry that your future boss will find your fanfic account.” Elliot stands up from his chair and sits next to me. Our shoulders touch. “So, what if you’re a guy, big deal. Newsflash, so am I.”

I roll my eyes. “It’s different.”

“Different isn’t bad.” His gaze lingers over me for a moment. “I like different.”

The words soak into my skin and etch themselves onto my bones. Elliot doesn’t hate that I’m different; he doesn’t hate me. My skin tingles. “There’s one other thing, too.” I climb over the bed, place my custard on Elliot’s bedside table, and fish the scissors out from my backpack. They shine in the afternoon light as I hold them out for Elliot. “Could you cut my hair?”

Elliot looks at my outstretched hand; he bites his lip. “It’d be my pleasure.” He snatches the scissors and snips them twice. “Let’s do it in the bathroom, the mirror’s bigger.”

Elliot practically drags me down the hall, rambling off a dozen different hairstyles I could try. He positions me in front of the mirror and sneaks behind me to get a towel. The fabric is smooth against my skin as he tucks it around my neck, though it’s an offensive shade of green. “Hair down, sir.”

“Now you’re overdoing it.” I tug the hair tie from my locks and hiss as a few strands are ripped out.

Elliot smooths my hair down, and I barely resist leaning into the touch. “How much do you wanna take off?”

“Just… Just make it look like yours.”

With that unsteady command, he begins hacking off hair. He guides my head, tipping it forward and sideways as he tries to shape out something that looks remotely like his own cut. The scissors get caught every so often. The ground looks more and more like a salon’s, and Elliot’s chatter is similar as well. “I should have known you were a guy.” Strands of hair tumble down my sweatshirt.

“What is that supposed to mean?” My head is pointed down at the sink.

“You only make male characters. That’s gotta be a sign of something.” Elliot steps to the side and holds my chin in his hands. His fingertips are calloused.

I raise a brow. “Maybe I just like guys. Did you ever think about that?”

Elliot’s hand pauses. The metal of the scissors is cool against my skin. “Do you? Still, I mean.” He steps back and locks eyes with me. “Or did you not?” He feigns a gasp. “Were you lying about James Garcia?”

I look over the boy standing before me. “I still like guys, and I did before too.”

Elliot runs a hand through his hair and lets out a breath. “Gay then?”

My brain has been preoccupied with my gender realization that I haven’t questioned my sexuality. But does it really matter when the only guy that’s been on my mind is Elliot? “I guess that’d be right.”

Elliot’s eyebrows pinch together. “That’s chill. Labels are stupid anyway.” He finishes his last snip with a flourish and brushes the hair away from my forehead. His face is next to mine in the mirror, smile blinding. “What do you think?”

I look over my reflection. It’s vastly different from the girl I saw in the mirror back when I went dress shopping with Mom. My hair is choppy but fitting. “You did great, Elio.”

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Prom is quick to arrive. Mom drives me to Elliot’s for pictures; she says I can’t make the distance in the heels. The teal dress rubs my skin like rope. I lean back in my seat, and Mom taps my arm. “Sit up. I don’t want you to ruin your hair.”

I bite my tongue and lean forward. There wasn’t much Mom could do with my new cut, but she did her best to feminize it with soft curls and half a can of hairspray. I let her, not wanting to pull myself into another argument. She freaked when she saw my new hair the first time. The Camry is sweltering in the late April sun; I hope my makeup will melt off by the time I step into the venue – a banquet hall in the middle of town that most schools choose for its cheap price.

When we pull into Elliot’s driveway he’s already standing outside with his parents on the porch. He looks nice, more put together than he typically does. His hair’s still a mess – I doubt that he’d ever put in the effort to gel it – but his tux fits him well. He hops down the front step and comes over to greet me.

The heels click against the asphalt as I climb out of the Camry. I nearly trip due to a crack in the walkway, but Elliot catches me in an instant. “These are death traps.” The strap of the heels dig into my tendons.

Elliot leans down to whisper above my ear. “I’ve got a surprise for you in my car. You’re not gonna suffer in heels all night.” He lets go of my arm and sneaks his touch away; he tucks his hands behind his back with a self-satisfied smirk. “Pictures?”

Our parents scramble to get us closer. Elliot’s mom leaves her flash on, and I cringe at the bright white light. Mom pulls her camera from her pocket and snaps a few pictures as well. She’ll get them printed at CVS later and hang one in the hallway where my childhood is placed in chronological order. A real smile rises on my lips. Even if she doesn’t know it, this will be my first picture as Isaac. I can’t say I ever imagined him in a dress though.

Elliot wraps his arm around my waist, and I soak in the touch. The mention of a surprise has my mind racing, so I don’t think about how close he is. He pulls me towards the car after a few more minutes. His dad calls out for him to drive safely.

I scramble into the passenger seat and lean against the headrest. “So, what’s the surprise?”

Elliot shakes his head. “Not here.” He pulls out of the driveway and starts down the road to the venue. He hangs a left when he ought to take a right.

“Where are you taking me?” I drum my fingers on my knee.

“Somewhere you can change.” He pulls into a McDonald’s parking lot and cuts the engine. “I got some clothes in the backseat. Jacket, shirt, pants. I didn’t know your size, so I did my best to guesstimate.” Elliot steps out of the car before I can question him further.

My mouth is agape as I follow and step around the car. Elliot thought of everything. He hands me a bundle of clothes, rests a belt around my neck like graduation chords, before I can say a word. “You didn’t need to do this. I would have been fine.” It would have been awful sitting in the dress all night, but I would have managed – hopefully without ripping my skin off.

“No way.” Elliot shakes his head. “Senior prom’s important, right? I had to make sure you’d like it. Plus, everyone’s a winner. Your mom thinks you wore the dress. You get a sweet suit.” He starts towards the McDonald’s entrance, and I can’t help but march in behind him.

I step into the bathroom as Elliot goes to order some pops. Changing in a stall isn’t the best part of my day, but it’ll have to do. I snake my hand back to unzip the dress – far more difficult to do myself – and sigh as it slips off my body. My lungs can finally expand. I kick off the heels and rub my ankles. After only thirty or so minutes of wearing them, they left blisters. I wipe off any lingering sequins and begin to redress in Elliot’s clothes. The cotton is soft and there’s still a hint of his cologne that makes my cheeks flush.

My fingers button a few jacket buttons as a final touch. I sling the dress over my arm and open the stall door. I set the dress and heels by the sinks and scrub off my makeup with hand soap and paper towel. It’s abrasive, but it works. I catch my reflection in the mirror as I check to make sure all the makeup is gone.

The jacket is a bit baggy, and the tie still hangs loose around my neck. I never learned how to tie one. I take a long breath. My heart slows. My mind clears. I don’t see the girl from the dress shop. Instead, I see Isaac. I see me. I don’t have the facial hair I crave, and my jawline isn’t strong, but it’s undeniable that the person looking back at me is no longer Nyssa. I’m not her. She’s gone.

A smile stretches across my face, large and blinding. I chuckle and then laugh. It’s not funny, but the joy that sings through my body has no other way to escape than through the laughs that echo off the bathroom walls. The sight is so intoxicating that I never want to look away. For the first time, I look into the mirror and recognize myself, different, but certainly me.

I leave the bathroom higher than I’ve been in ages.

Elliot’s waiting for me near the exit, pops in hand. He passes me a Fanta. “The suit looks good on you.”

“You’re such a suck up.” The pop isn’t nearly as sweet as Elliot’s words.

He pushes open the door with his shoulder. “I’ll do your tie in the car.”

I toss the dress and heels in the back seat when we make our way back to Elliot’s car. I slide into the passenger seat once more, and Elliot gestures for me to come closer so he can do my tie. I oblige and feel my heart leap as we get closer. I rest an arm on the center console to steady myself.

Elliot raptly focuses on his task, sliding the fabric over itself as he works. “Can’t believe I get to take the best guy in school to prom.”

My mind comes to a screeching halt. “What?”

Elliot finishes tying my tie and sits back in his seat. “What do you mean ‘what?’ We’re going to prom together.” He pauses, looking unsure for the first time in ages.

I let Elliot’s words hang between us.

The way Elliot speaks, it makes sense. We never spoke about the prospect of going together together; we always knew that it’d be the two of us, as friends, of course. Ever since we met in preschool, Elliot and I have been a pair. I look over the boy before me, searching for a sign that this is all some sort of joke, a cruel one at that. Elliot just looks confused.

I pick apart each of his words. Elliot and I are going to prom together.

A smile splits across my face. My skin grows tingly like I’m covered in static electricity. It’s the way Elliot says it, that he’s taking the “best guy” and the fondness in his tone that’s syrupy sweet, that makes me believe that perhaps prom is important after all.

“Should I have done a whole promposal thing? I could still swing by the Dollar Tree, pick up a posterboard.” Elliot spins his keys around his finger; the metal clinks together.

I chuckle. “You don’t need to do a promposal.” My hand runs through my hair, shaking out the curls and hairspray. “You are going to owe me at least one slow dance now though, since I’m your date.”

Elliot laces his fingers with mine on the console. “Sounds like a deal, Ize.”

The nickname makes my ears burn; it’s as wonderful sounding as my favorite Bowie song. “I’ll hold you to it.”

When Elliot pulls out of the parking lot, he rolls the windows down and cranks up the radio. We sing along to “Under Pressure” horribly off-key. Our hands never leave the console; instead, I hold on to Elliot as tight as I can. Tonight, I’m myself, and Elliot is my partner. The dynamic is a bit different, but I’ve learned to love the differences.